


Nothing Says Loving...

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Smarm, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-03
Updated: 2006-04-03
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: Daniel loves Jack more than all others combined.





	Nothing Says Loving...

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

In this, as in most endeavors, it is best to keep busy. Waiting is hard.

Jack's been in DC for six days. Not happy about going, surely miserable being there, and now on his way back. Air travel, even first class, is not to Jack's taste: too slow, too crowded, too much under someone else's control. And if that weren't enough, a snowstorm on the east coast delayed his departure by three hours.

He didn't want me to pick him up, wasn't sure exactly when he'd arrived, having been re-routed through Minneapolis. He'd need that time to decompress, he said, to make the transition from irrational to merely irritable. 'So you can stand me, Danny,' he laughed, then in a more serious voice, 'Wish DC had a Stargate. I'd be home by now. We have so little time as it is. I'm sorry, Daniel.'

He's right. Tonight is our one night at home and it's fast slipping away. Tomorrow night is Janet's birthday, on Friday it's the monthly poker night at Siler's, Saturday, potluck at General Hammond's, and Sunday's the initiation ceremony at the base. Monday we go off-world. Got to make tonight special, no matter how little of it we have.

Roast chicken, I had decided at the market this morning, roast chicken sandwiches tonight. That decided, I review the list. A cheese and veggie platter for Janet's party, beer and wings for poker night, potato salad for Saturday, and brownies for Sunday. Something special and homemade for each of them. Sure it's more convenient to pick up take-out on the way, but for these people, the extra effort is worth it. Yeah, go ahead, laugh at the linguist who can't say, 'I love you,' except through food.

Shopping has taken up an hour, but the day will stretch on interminably if I don't keep busy. So I cook, indulging my passion in a way I can't when Jack's here. 'Slap it on the grill, char it black and let's eat!' is his motto.

I marinate the chicken in a sugar-and-salt bath, slather it with olive oil and stuff a onion, some garlic and thyme inside. Because he's not here to complain about 'all that weird stuff,' I slide thin slices of preposterously priced black truffle under the skin. A few minutes' browning on the stove, then into the oven for slow roasting. Going to be great sandwiches tonight. 

By 3:00 pm, Jack's in Minneapolis, with another three-hour layover and it's snowing there, too. He sounds cold and miserable. Chicken soup might be better.

The poker night chicken wings would make a great stock. As soon as the oven's free, I roast the wings along with some carrots and celery; the veggie platter will be a little lighter but there's still the cheese for Janet's party. In the meantime, I set up the stockpot with water, a little wine and my own bouquet garni. While the stock simmers, I shred the roast chicken and add it to the pot.

Thin, I'm thinking, not substantial enough for a man who's been eating airport food all day, if he's eaten at all. I add the remaining vegetables to the stockpot, and without a thought for General Hammond's potluck, I quickly parboil all the little red-skinned potatoes and throw them in the pot, too.

Um, still looks too thin. I open the refrigerator and survey the contents. Ah, Cabot's Finest Cheddar. Sorry, Janet. I grate the cheese and slowly stir it into the soup. I taste it: creamy, velvety, so very good. 

But still missing something. Back to the refrigerator. Inspiration. A bottle or two of dark beer would add the final touch. Guess we'll be a little short for the poker game Friday night.

Brownies. Jack loves them, so why wait until Sunday? I'll make them right now and just for him. The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate. Double-check, and yes, we have vanilla ice cream.

There's the key in the door. Jack's shedding his overcoat and dress blue jacket by the time I reach the living room. All this time and the sight still makes my knees weak. Every nerve ending tingles. He loosens his tie and tosses it atop the chair on his way to me. 

Full-body hug from a man at the end of his endurance and it feels great. 'Danny, jeezus, I didn't think I'd ever get here.'

I'd reply but my mouth's otherwise engaged. Jack holds me tight and walks me backwards into the kitchen. He's hard but hungry, a tough combination.

'Smells so good. I ate crap on the plane, crap at the airport.'

With one arm still tight around my waist, he lifts the lid on the stockpot and inhales deeply, eyes closed, an expression of deep pleasure on his tired face. Then he spies the brownies.

'Daniel? You did all this for me?'

I nod, thinking, yes, just for you, always and forever for you. And make a mental note to pick up take-out the rest of the week.

'Come here,' he says, with that look that promises much for later. 'Let me kiss the cook.'


End file.
